


My Best Friend is the Centerfold

by PrettyThief



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basketball, Brienne is not a virgin, F/M, Fantasizing, Friends to not friends to lovers, Masturbation, Minor mentions of Jaime/Cersei, No Incest, porn with maybe like a little bit of plot, this was supposed to be an under 1000 words ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-29 20:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyThief/pseuds/PrettyThief
Summary: Five years since last they spoke, Brienne does not expect to see her old best friend, Jaime Lannister, modeling underwear on her social media feed.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 163
Kudos: 437





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely due to "Centerfold" by the J. Geils Band.
> 
> This is silly fun, but I'm still working on my huge multichapter JB space drama, which isn't anywhere near ready for posting. Feel free to follow progress on [my Tumblr](https://pretty--thief.tumblr.com).

Palming an unopened bottle of Merlot, Brienne thinks to herself that this has been the worst Wednesday on record. She rummages through the least organized drawer in the tiny kitchen of her one bedroom flat until she finds a corkscrew, popping the top. For a moment, she considers tipping the bottom up and gulping it down, but ruefully sets the idea aside.

She adores her job; social work had long been her calling, and representing children who had no one else to defend them seemed to be the perfect fit. Her biggest regret would always be that she couldn't save them all, and she found it impossible not to bring her feelings about the day's work home with her. That might be her _ only _ regret, if it weren't for her boss, Renly Baratheon. Even a year after he gently told her he was gay, and nothing would ever happen between them, she could scarcely get the man's face out of her head. It had completely _ mortified _ her when Renly had approached her at the bar their work group often frequented to tell her that. How long had he known that she was completely and irrevocably into him? Did everyone know? Had she been so obvious?

Brienne sighs at the memory, trying not to think of all the things she should have told him then, trying to remember that he was just her boss. Nothing more.

She pours wine into a glass, nearly all the way to the top, and has half of it down before she's removed her shoes.

Carrying both bottle and glass, she pads her way into the bedroom, slipping out of the stiff pantsuit she wears to the office. She slides between the sheets, and pulls out her phone.

She _ won't _look at Renly's social media accounts, she thinks as she finishes off one glass and pours herself another.

And she doesn't. Instead she scrolls though photo after photo of her brother's dog, her neighbor's new car, her college roommate's family reunion, and--

She freezes, a thumb hovering over the screen and eyes widening. _ No. No way._

On the screen before her is an advertisement for men's underwear. It isn't something she might have paid attention to before, but… she knows those eyes, that smirk, the hand that rests on the back of a neck she recognizes, too.

_ Jaime Lannister._

Jaime had been on her intramural soccer league in college. They had both been NCAA athletes in their own right in basketball, though Jaime and the men's team had received far more attention. Brienne was mostly left alone, save for the _ incident._ The other soccer guys, two of them on Jaime's basketball team, had started a bet on who could take the Maid of Tarth's virginity. It had shocked everyone, Brienne included, when Jaime had beaten the shit out of them all, earning himself a suspension from basketball for the rest of the season. The team lost the title that year for the first time in five years, and _ everyone _ blamed Jaime. But he continued to be her friend--studying with her, seeking her out for lunch, and playing one on one basketball with her. That had lasted until he started dating Cersei, who demanded all of his time and attention. They'd gotten married right after graduation, and Brienne had spent five years trying not to think of her lost friend, the only real friend she'd ever had.

But now, here he is, in the last place she might have expected to see him. And she has never seen him like _ this._

He's nearly nude, save for a white pair of boxer briefs that certainly leave little to the imagination. A smirk is on his lips, head dipping low and green eyes peering out heatedly beneath long lashes. His hair is longer than it had been when she had known him, curling at the ends, and he wears a close-cropped, neatly trimmed golden beard. He's as pretty as he ever was.

Her eyes travel over the rest of the photo, and she thinks that maybe she's had enough to drink because there's a definite surge of desire between her legs when she rakes across the length of his muscled and oiled torso. The vee of his hips catch her eye, peeking out past the waistband of his boxers. It's what's between those hips, though, that sends her fingers sliding past the elastic of her cotton underwear.

It seems to Brienne downright _ unfair _ that a man as impossibly handsome as Jaime should have a cock like that. She dips a finger between the wet heat of her thighs, swirling it around exploratively. She wonders for all of a second if the photo is doctored, but quickly discards the thought. It's _ Jaime, _and of course he would even be hung like a god. The outline of it is long and thick, curving into the pocket of the boxers as though barely contained, longing to be let loose. She gasps as the tip of her finger finds the sensitive little bud, already swollen.

Her hand picks up speed and she imagines what it would feel like to have Jaime's fingers, tongue, cock bringing her into this place of transcendence she so rarely allows herself to go. She pictures his green eyes burning into her own from between her legs, moans loudly at the thought of him seating himself into her to the hilt, filling and stretching her like she never has been before. Surely he would take his time with her, pulling out nearly all the way before slowly and carefully pressing himself back in, over and over until he found the perfect angle that would make her want to scream his name.

Her back arches off the bed, fingers moving in rapid circles and a low moan vibrating from her throat, her brain shifting between images of straddling her former friend's muscular hips, pinning him to the bed, and taking his cock in her mouth, causing him to give himself over to her completely as she sucked him dry. She isn't sure which image does her in, but before long she's tensing up. And all she can see behind her tightly clenched eyes is Jaime's kind smile the day he saved her from those awful boys, Jaime's eyes when he laughed at her jokes--

She lets the feeling take her, shuddering violently until she feels her muscles may never function properly again. And then she's lying in a sweaty mess on her bed, but she finds that she doesn't care.

Her phone lies in the bed, almost forgotten. No thoughts of Renly had ever made her come so quickly, so _ thoroughly_. She should feel ashamed, as she always was when she thought of the dark-haired Baratheon as she just had Jaime. But somehow, it doesn't matter.

It's only Jaime.

She picks up her phone again, and types "Jaime Lannister" into the search bar of her social media account. She finds a profile of a man wearing an expensive-looking suit and a cap with an NBA team's logo on the front. He's grinning at something off-camera. Looking further, she sees they have seven friends in common; the seven people from her days as a college athlete she had chosen to remain in contact with.

Feeling bold, she clicks further into his profile and her stomach swoops when she sees his relationship status: _ single._

And maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's her post-orgasm brain, or maybe her day was just bad enough that she figures it can't get worse--but without hesitation, Brienne clicks "_Add Friend."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime accepts Brienne's friend request, and finds a very inspiring photograph of her by the pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like there's more """plot""" in this one than the last one, but maybe I'm miscalculating? Anyway, I hope this is a worthy successor to part one. Thank you to everyone who's commented and asked for more!L. Reminder that this isn't beta-read.

Jaime throws himself onto his bed and thinks that this must have been one of the worst Wednesdays he's ever lived through. He already has a bottle of bourbon in one hand and a glass in the other. He realizes too late that he's going to have to sit back up to pour one into the other. He groans self-indulgently, slides up to the headboard, and makes the pour a long one.

He wishes he liked his job more, but the kids he has to deal with--even those older than his 28 years--grate on his nerves. It doesn't help that some of them think it's appropriate to text and call him at all hours of the day and night. "Mr. Lannister, I brought a girl to my hotel, now the police are at my door. I swear I didn't know she was a prostitute! HELP," and, "We were just having a drink or two, I don't know why the cop thought we were in the street because we were about to fight! Can I put the cop on the phone so you can tell him that?" 

He had at least gotten in two good years actually playing in the NBA. His college basketball stats had been good enough for any team in the country, but his fighting hadn't been. Still, the small Stormlands team that had taken a chance on him had won the championship for the first time in their history. Jaime's awards for Most Valuable Player and Rookie of the Year collected dust in a box in his attic. He had shattered his hand after the second season, and after a year of rehab, he was now an assistant coach. It hadn't even mattered to Cersei that the function of his hand--and thus his career and excessive income--had been the cost of digging her out of the car _ she _ had crashed with both them and Myrcella in it. She barely bothered to see their daughter now. He's fortunate his Aunt Genna can be there for the girl when he's working.

Jaime sips at his bourbon in the quiet dark of his bedroom, high above the port city of Storm's End, trying not to think of Cersei. It's mostly anger now, with a little bit of pity. But he's gotten to a point, three years on, where the feelings dissipate quickly enough if he wants them to.

And dissipate they do, at the sound of a phaser firing from the pocket of his slacks, indicating a text message. One of the rookies had changed his notification ringtone as a joke, and Jaime was too proud to admit that it doesn't bother him much, because he actually _ likes _Star Trek.

He digs his phone out, expecting to see another cry for help or meme he doesn't understand from a twenty-one-year-old athlete with too much income. Instead, it's a friend request.

It's--_oh gods._

_ Brienne Tarth. _

Jaime turns up the contents of his glass into his mouth and immediately pours another.

Brienne's is a name he has kept neatly tucked away in the furthest corners of his mind. Anytime she threatens to make an appearance in his thoughts, he pushes her back down and locks the door behind her. He feels bad, and he knows he _ should _feel bad, for everything that happened between them. 

Jaime had enjoyed everything about her. Her sharp tongue when she would strike blows to his overinflated ego. The way she wasn't afraid to tackle him to the ground on the sports fields. How her entire face lit up when she told a joke. The lack of fear or self-consciousness when she would try to best him during their one on one basketball matches. The smirk she wore on the occasions she _did_ best him. And _her_ _legs_\--like thick, muscular tree branches he wouldn't mind to have died pinned beneath. 

He'd taken her out so often, hoping she would show some sign that she was interested in him the way he was interested in her. But she never did. And then he was drunk at Addam Marbrand's party, and Cersei probably was _ not_, and by the morning she'd convinced him that this would be good enough, if not what he deserved. It had hurt, physically _ hurt_, to stop talking to Brienne, but he didn't think there was any way to get over her otherwise. His only regret was that he'd never given her an explanation for letting their friendship fade away. And he thinks that maybe someone like Brienne would always be too good for him.

But there is now no reason to do anything with her friend request but accept it, so he does.

It feels strangely intrusive to go through her profile, even though _ she _ had requested _ him_. The first thing he notices is that she looks happy in her profile photo, smiling with one arm slung around a dark-haired man and the other around a pretty brunette. The second is that there's no indication of a relationship, but there's no indication of the _ lack _ of one either.

And then he sees it, and suddenly he's sitting straight up.

In the photograph, her hand is on her hip and her head is tilted upward toward a summer sun, eyes closed. She's wearing a bikini, something the Brienne he'd known in college would never have done. It isn't anything terribly skimpy or especially sexy, just a blue top and bottom. But it_ is _ just small enough to put the bare curve of her muscular ass on display.

Jaime sets his glass on the bedside table, acutely aware that he's growing hard beneath his gray slacks, but not caring much. In all of their time together, he'd never seen her look so at peace, so at home in her own freckled skin. His eyes travel away from her backside down the long length of one ivory leg. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he's unbuttoning his pants and lifting his hips off the bed to slide them off so that he's sprawled on the bed in just his white button-down shirt.

He glances back at the photograph, at first just trailing his fingertips along the length of his cock, teasing himself until he's so hard he's going to have to do something about it. He fumbles for the lotion in his nightstand drawer, rubbing a liberal amount into his hands.

Jaime gives his cock a gentle squeeze and groans under his own touch, biting his lip. He slides his hand slowly from the top to bottom, then from base to the tip, swiping a thumb over the bead of fluid collected there and swirling it around the head of his cock. He wonders what it might feel like to have Brienne in his bed to do this for him, if she would want to lick the precum from him before wrapping her generous lips around him, astonishing blue eyes locked with his all the while.

He picks up the speed with his hand as he thinks that he wouldn't be able to let her do that long, would have to pull her on top of him properly. He imagines his timid, fierce friend slamming her body down onto his own, pinning his hands over his head with one strong hand of her own. Jaime thinks she would probably be able to ride him for _ hours _ with thighs as muscled as hers. The thought makes his eyes roll back and he audibly gasps, an inexperienced twenty-year-old all over again.

His pace is punishingly fast, the muscles in his forearm and bicep contracting and relaxing with each stroke and his head thrown back. His mind is racing through a series of fantasies he'd not allowed himself to indulge in in _ years _ . How he'd give his entire body over to Brienne for as long as she could make use of it, and then he'd buck his hips and flip them over. He would slow the rhythm of their bodies to a quiet crescendo like a powerful waterfall heard from a distance, just savoring the feel of _ Brienne _ beneath him, nipping and sucking and teasing with his fingers until he couldn't take it anymore and spilled himself inside of her. As a youth he thought he'd immediately go down on her afterward, making her cry his name and pull his hair until she didn't have the strength for another orgasm. 

It isn't realistic, but Jaime clings to the idea of hours of fucking followed by the way her thighs would bury his face there, intoxicated by the scent of her sex mixed with his sweat. He can feel his body beginning to tense up at the thought, and moves his hand faster, hips rising off the sheets ever so slightly. His final image before he loses control is one of her long fingers knotted into his hair, his tongue flicking across her sensitive little nub rapidly before taking it into his mouth and sucking until she _ screamed_.

And Jaime is pretty sure he actually screams too--a low, feral sound as he came, harder than he had in ages.

"Gods," he mutters as he slides off the bed and walks to the shower.

When he has successfully scrubbed away his shame in hot water, he sits back down on the edge of his bed and takes a sip of bourbon that he probably doesn't need, and picks up the phone again.

He doesn't know what makes him do it. Maybe he's drunk, or just stupid. Maybe he genuinely wants her to understand why their friendship fell apart, that it wasn't her fault. Maybe he's just selfish.

Whatever the reason, Jaime taps the "send a message" button.

_ Tarth_, he begins, _ did you know I'm a very successful underwear model now? _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne talk. Brienne comes to terms with her feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is barely M rated. Hopefully chapters 4 and 5 make up for it. ;)

The _ ping! _of her phone draws a sharp breath from Brienne, startling her from the quiet reverie she had slipped into. She has not yet been able to peek at what might be lurking within Jaime's social media profile. The mad confidence that had gripped her for but a few moments earlier seemed to have retreated when his name had flashed upon her phone with the announcement that he had agreed to their online friendship.

She glances down reluctantly, almost afraid of what she might see. The words, "_new message from Jaime Lannister _" are scrolling along the screen, a thumbnail of his grinning face alongside them. Her stomach swoops, though she's not sure of the feelings that accompany the sensation: anxiety, excitement, fear? Whatever it may be, she isn't ready to face it.

She thinks back to the day she had had up to the point of seeing Jaime's face. Her biggest case had taken a turn for the worse; they were nearly too late. And even though she had successfully helped the children in question, it had felt like a hollow victory in the face of everything those children had gone through. She had tried to find comfort in Renly, spilling her feelings with the thought that they might bond. He had scarcely looked up.

Brienne wonders whether Jaime would comfort her, whether he would listen if she poured her heart out to him.

It's a ridiculous thought, she has to admit. She doesn't even know Jaime anymore. Does he even like children? Does he even like _ her _? Does he even remember anything about her?

She could find out, if she clicked the "new message" icon on the phone screen. But she's spent so long constructing a world that he isn't a part of that, when faced with the reality of reconnecting with him, it would feel like a betrayal to the comfortable life she leads, the work she does, and her friendship with Renly and Margaery. They are both so _ good_, and Jaime… Jaime had destroyed his reputation for fighting half the intramural soccer team.

So, in contrast to her professional life, Brienne does not take action. Instead she lies in bed, watching the clock on the wall across from her bed tick away the night until she falls into a restless sleep. And it's of Jaime Lannister she dreams: sharp smiles, tousled hair, bruising fingertips pressing into her skin, lips reddened and swollen by the acts of service they've performed upon her own mouth and body, and saving her, _ always saving her. _

Brienne goes the entire day without opening the message, although she does not delete or dismiss it either. She just allows it to sit on her screen, Jaime's name staring up at her every time she needs to check the time or make a call. The reminder feels almost a penitence for her sloppy behavior the night before. She wanted to think of him? Good, she'll be thinking of him all day.

When she's home again, alone and sober, she collapses into her favorite overstuffed armchair and hugs her knees to her chest, phone in hand. She knows she initiated the current situation, but something about opening up communication with Jaime tells her there's no going back.

Brienne opens the message.

_ Tarth, did you know I'm a very successful underwear model now? _

Brienne closes the message.

She doesn't know what she expected to receive from Jaime, but a joke about the modeling gig that had sent her hands questing between her legs was _ not it_.

She stares for a long moment, unsure whether to respond to him at all. But she can picture him smirking behind his screen as he typed, and his words feel like a challenge. Like something from her previous life as a college athlete when she had been unafraid to slam her body into his to prevent a score. Ignoring his taunts isn't in her nature.

_ You're paid to take your clothes off and the room you're in still accommodates the size of your ego? I'm astounded. _

She allows herself a little smile and slides back further into her armchair, illuminated by the cool dusk sunlight from the window behind her. Brienne had never been as good as Jaime at this, but she'd also been the only person to ever dare insult him to his face, even as a joke.

She trades her phone for the half-finished book on the little table beside her chair and switches on the lamp. She doesn't expect an answer from him anytime soon. She knows he was involved with the NBA in some capacity, though for the past five years she has made herself not look into what he was up to, and surely he's too busy for instant replies to old friends. But her phone pings before she's found the place she left off in her book.

_ I see you've improved. I'm almost wounded. _

Her eyes narrow as she taps or a response. She hasn't forgiven him, isn't sure she wants to, and has no idea what she's doing.

_ I've improved at a lot of things. _

_ Oh? Like what? _ He quickly follows up, and Brienne can't decide what to make of the rapid change. _ How have you been? What have you been up to? _

She doesn't know what to say. Two days ago, Jaime had still been stowed safely away, a memory of something she once privately pined for in a way she would never admit even to herself. Even that fantasy had been replaced by Renly, who was perhaps even further out of reach. And though he was kind to her, he was no Jaime Lannister. Jaime had rescued her from their teammates--from the whole school even; no one had sniggered behind her back again after he had bruised and bloodied nearly a dozen Division 1 athletes in her defense.

_ Can I call you? _

Brienne realizes some time has passed without an answer to his rapid-fire questions. It had not occurred to her before he asked just how much she _did_ want to hear from him. Like a sudden tall wave in calm waters, the desperation for his voice crashes over her as it had not done since she was twenty-two years old.

_ Yes, _she types before she can stop herself.

And then her phone is ringing and "Jaime Lannister is calling" is painted in large blocky letters across the front of it. He's _video _ calling her.

Brienne spends the space of five seconds straightening in her chair and flattening her hair before pressing "accept."

And then Jaime is there in her living room, the symmetry of his face unbroken even by the frown he wears. And for only a second, all Brienne can think is that the deep green sweater worn tight across his chest is at _ least _ one article of clothing too many, and _ gods _ his hair looks so perfect, and wouldn't it be a _ shame _if she were to dig her fingers into it as he nipped and sucked an orgasm out of her, and--

"Hi," Jaime is saying, back in reality.

She blushes profusely and mumbles out a hello.

His frown tugs upward at the corners just sightly. "You still do that." He sounds entirely too pleased.

"Is there a reason you've called?"

He shrugs. "Do I need a reason?"

"It's been five years."

He winces and his eyes dart from hers. "I know. That's my fault."

She laughs, hating how obviously bitter she sounds. "I'm aware whose fault it is, Jaime." But she doesn't mean him. She could _ never _ mean him. He'd given her more friendship than she'd had any right to, before Cersei had come along.

"I should have reached out sooner, but by the time I realized… I didn't think you'd want to hear it. Are you still in the Stormlands?"

"I am." She hesitates. "So why now?"

"You sent me a friend request. This is me, accepting. If you'll have me."

His face droops like a kicked animal, an expression Brienne can't remember often seeing on him. He looks guilty, and every bit of her wants to kiss the sadness out of him. It shocks her how much she wants that.

"Jaime--" she begins, exasperated and a little overwhelmed.

But she is cut off by a voice in the background. "DAAADDYYYYYY!" the voice wails, the voice of little girl who could not have been even school-age.

Jaime turns his head towards the door behind him and scrubs a hand over his face. Brienne wonders what the scars upon it are from. 

"I'm sorry, Brienne. It's Myrcella. She's going through a phase with nightmares." She thought his frown couldn't deepen any further, but it somehow does, twisting her stomach into knots. "I don't know your schedule, but I'm free Saturday evening and I'd really love to catch up over dinner."

She worries at her lip, forgetting for a moment that Jaime could see her, would notice her hesitancy.

"Alright."

He smiles genuinely then, standing from the bed he had apparently been sitting on. "I'll text you details." He stalls by his bedroom door, hand on the knob. "I'm really glad to hear from you. Have a good night, Brienne."

And she did. Her golden-haired friend plays the star of her dreams once again. Only this time, he is older and with a serious sort of determination about him as he moves within her. It's the sweet, sure fucking of a mature man well-practiced and confident--something she has never had before. 

In her dreams, Brienne is enough for him, as she never has been for anyone in the daylight. In her dreams, he loves her too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne meet in person for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up splitting this in two. Since tomorrow is a family-oriented holiday in the US, I'll most likely post the second half later today.

Brienne sits at a table for two in the back corner of the restaurant Jaime had texted her about the previous day. Presently, it's only a minute or two shy of seven o'clock and he hasn't shown yet. She taps her fingers on the table, her eyes darting up every time there's movement at the door. 

She noticed on the way in a billboard with Jaime's half-naked body on it. She wondered if there were others peppered throughout the city that she might have noticed if she weren't always so preoccupied. Where else had she missed him? In magazines? On the sides of buses? A tiny, dreaming part of her hopes he'll fill her in.

The little bell over the door tinkles at three minutes past seven. In the doorway is a man that Brienne both knows intimately and barely recognizes. Seeing him in person now, she realizes he's filled out more since he was twenty-three years old. His shoulders are broader beneath a winter jacket that is fastened just a little too snugly over an equally expansive chest. His jaw is covered now only in golden stubble matched by sharp eyebrows and wavy hair that curls around his ears.

_ Jaime. _

As he scans the room in search of her, Brienne wonders how she never truly saw him like this before. Why had it taken an  _ underwear advertisement _ to awaken feelings she had always considered little more than a silly, impossible crush? Looking at him now, in the flesh, there was no denying that she  _ wanted _ him. 

Jaime catches sight of her, and Brienne feels like she needs to shield her face from the brightness of his smile.

"Hey!" He says when he reaches her, holding out an arm.

She stands from her chair and lets Jaime envelop her into him, the cold lapel of his jacket brushing against her cheek but his hands warm across her shoulder blades. His skin emanates the spicy scent of aftershave and the earthy dusting of snow in his hair.

Jaime holds her against his chest a little longer than necessary for a simple greeting, and Brienne thinks he must really be sorry. She knows she has to be the one to pull away, loosening her grip on his shoulders. 

Their waiter is by their table before they have settled into their table, asking for orders.

Jaime holds the drinks menu in one hand. "Is it still Merlot?" His eyes are narrowed and glinting with the hint of a smile.

"It is."

"Two of your best Merlot, please."

The waiter leaves and Brienne is left trying to figure out where to look. Surely his eyes are out of the question. He's staring at her with an odd expression that she's reluctant to meet. She's just beginning to wonder whether dinner was a bad idea when he finally says something.

"I've been trying to think of what to say all week. How to… to start the conversation. And I think, maybe, it's best to just rip the band-aid off….” In spite of his words, Jaime hesitates, and his hand moves forward across the table as though to take hers, but he stops and pulls it back toward him. “_I'm sorry_,” he says instead. “There's not much else I can say. I was stupid, and I realize I'm lucky to be here with you tonight."

She chews the inside of her cheek and meets his gaze. He certainly  _looks_ sorry with his brow knitted above mournful eyes and his lips turned down in a frown. A small voice in the back of her mind is telling her to be angry, to not let him off the hook so easily. It's Margaery's voice. But Brienne isn't Margaery and she doesn't want to be angry.

"Jaime…" she begins with a sigh.

"No, Brienne. Don't sell me platitudes. Don't tell me it's okay when I know it isn't. You were the best… the best friend I ever had. The best  _person_ I've ever had in my life, and I fucked it up."

"But you loved Cersei," she says before she can stop herself.

Jaime frowns and looks away from her. "I don't want to talk about Cersei," he mumbles.

"It seems like she played a big part in … this. Maybe we should talk about Cersei?"

"I married her because she was pregnant, Brienne. And I love Myrcella. She’s four and she’s _perfect_. But I don’t--_gods_, I’ve never said this aloud--I’m not even sure she’s _mine_ and I’d rather not know. She’s my daughter. Do you understand?”

Brienne nods even as her heart seems to clench with empathy at his words and the determined set of his jaw. She isn’t sure why he’s telling her all this just now--perhaps he just needed to tell _ someone _ \--but she can understand how easy it is to love a child, even one that isn’t your own.

She reaches across the table and takes the hand he had left upon it, the one with the scars she will not ask him about. “Thank you for telling me. I’m sure it’ll take time to move past, but I’d like to forgive you.” She tries to smile, and isn’t sure the effect works. Her smiles have never been of much use for anyone. “Are you staying in the Stormlands?”

He seems to relax, and she notices he hasn’t withdrawn his hand when he talks, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I am. I was signed to Storm’s End after graduation--_your_ favorite team, if I recall correctly. There was a car accident--_I’m fine, everyone is fine, don’t look at me like that_\--so I’m an assistant coach now. Cersei didn't like that change, so we divorced three years ago and I have Myrcella full time. The coaching is more of a babysitting gig, to be honest, but it’s permanent and steady work." He paused to take a sip from his glass. "I got the modeling contract when I was still_ em vee pee_, and for whatever reason they’ve kept me. It’s good money and...” he shrugs, “I kind of enjoy it.”

Brienne thinks she knows  _ exactly  _ why they kept him--he isn’t the only one who enjoys it. She feels a faint flush of heat rise in her cheeks at the thought of him in only the tight white boxers she had first seen him in earlier in the week. She withdraws her hand, his skin suddenly seeming to scorch her own, under the pretense of pushing her hair behind her ears.

Jaime's lips quirk upward a little more, his face softer than she had yet seen it. If he noticed her blush, he said nothing of it this time. “So that’s me. What have you been up to?”

Brienne tells him of her life after college, how she went back for her master’s in social work and about her work within the legal system. She finds herself describing her friends at work and even a couple of memorable tales of some of the children she’s helped. It's entirely too easy to fall into an old rhythm.

After Brienne has finished talking and they are a glass of wine in apiece, Jaime leans back in his chair, studying her. This particular penetrating gaze always had a peculiar effect on her, and now is no different. It's perhaps even more intense that it had been when they were young. She drops her head to stare at the napkin in her lap.

"You were good, you know. Truly good. Do you still play?"

"Oh," she means to only think but actually says aloud instead, "no, not really. I mean. Sometimes at the gym." She doesn't say what she wants to: that she left basketball behind when she left him behind.

Jaime doesn't shift his attention from her. She wants to meet his eyes, but finds that she still cannot.

"How hungry are you?”

Brienne does look at him then and is only able to blink several times at his very serious, very maddeningly handsome face. “I’m--_why_?”

“I want to show you something, and I don't think it can wait."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne make up for lost time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day. To those of you in the U.S., happy Thanksgiving!
> 
> This chapter would not be what it is without the Good Works of the venerable Alicia Keys on her song [Un-Thinkable (I'm Ready)](https://youtu.be/HhuGQUZJot8).

Before she knows it, Brienne is standing at the gate leading to the court of the Storm’s End Knights, the professional basketball team Jaime had led to its first national championship as a rookie player. Only the lights above the court are switched on, the glossy maple floor gleaming enough to reflect the hoops on each end. It’s quiet, though. Quieter than any other time she’s been in this building, learning to love basketball next to her father and her big brother. On those visits, she had been a screaming fan in the stands—now cast in shadows, empty and still. She thinks that the feeling of serenity that washes over her must be what it feels for the devout to enter a sept full of lit candles. Here, the metal halide spotlights will serve as candles and the three-point line her altar.

She’s changed into one of Jaime’s practice jerseys, much to his amusement when he realized they still wore around the same size. He’s standing at her elbow now, a basketball under one arm and wearing a jersey to match her own.

“You should get first ball, since you’re rusty.”

She tilts her head towards him, smirking. “Not a chance, Lannister.”

Sharing a court with Jaime again feels like coming home. He still floats around the floor with the grace and athleticism of a dancer, still is not afraid to throw himself against her to block her shots. No matter how she breaks off or pivots, he’s there, unyielding and unapologetically dominant.

But Brienne gives him just as good as she gets.

He has possession just past the half-court line, dribbling carefully with his right hand, his eyes locked on hers as he looks for the weak spot he needs to push past her. She’s trying not to be distracted by the heat in his verdant eyes, or how his curls fall across his forehead with sweat. The most she can do is glare back at him, transforming the all-too-familiar heat coiling low in her abdomen into an intensity that she hopes will be more than he is prepared for.

Jaime pivots to her left, tossing the ball between his legs and toward his left hand as he does so, lightning fast. Brienne is faster, recognizing his signature crossover move that had worked so well against every opponent she had ever seen him face. Before the ball can touch his left hand, she moves in, swiping toward it with her right and knocking it away from him. He scrambles behind him, but she’s already recaptured the ball.

She’s charging for the goal when he leaps in front of her, seeming to come from nowhere. He’s faster than she remembers. He whirls around to face her, digging his toes into the hardwood and throwing an arm out toward her, but she feints away from him. She’s at the goal in only two strides, jumping, arm outstretched toward the rim. She can feel the ball roll off her fingers with enough fluidity that it might have been an extension of her own body, rolling off her fingertips and into the air.

But then Jaime is there again, leaping vertically at the exact moment Brienne leaves the ground. And for a split second, he’s taller, biting his lip and shouting out a groan as his hand swipes ferociously at the ball, knocking it so hard away from its intended target that the sound ricochets across the court and the ball bounces hard off the post. The power of his move throws him off balance, and momentum sends him flying forward, directly into Brienne before she has returned to the ground. 

She’s on her back then, chest heaving and Jaime sitting astride her. She stares up at him, dizzy and flushed from the rapidity of their play. 

He isn’t moving. He’s just looking down at her, his eyes wild and fierce and breathing so heavy it’s audible. Sweat trickles down his temples and beads in the stubble at his jawline, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s just _looking_ at her.

Brienne shifts up onto her palms, but his gaze holds her in place beneath him. The ball rolls away toward the stands, forgotten. There’s some raw emotion in his face that she thinks she had caught glimpses of in their past, flashes that left her reminding herself that he was her friend, nothing more. But now, with a tiny bit more experience under her belt and this exchange stretching out between them, she isn't so sure.

She’s still trying to put the pieces together when Jaime climbs off of her after what feels like an eternity and extends a hand to help her to her feet as well. She moves toward the stilled ball and isn’t sure what to make of what just happened—thinks she knows, but it doesn’t seem _possible_.

Her mind changes quickly when Jaime catches up to her beside the post, places a hand on her shoulder and spins her toward him.

“_Brienne_,” he says huskily. His eyes are searching hers for something—questioning, maybe even pleading. The warmth of his hand on her shoulder feels like it might burn through her jersey.

She looks back at him, unconsciously taking a step forward as her lips part just enough to capture his attention. He inhales deeply, raking his eyes from her mouth back up to her eyes, exhales heavily, and pulls her to him.

If Jaime’s touch through her clothes was hot, the press of his mouth against her own is scorching. His hands slide up from her shoulders, trailing along her neck and jaw to cradle her face in his hands. Green eyes linger on her own for several long seconds until he inclines his face to brush his lips against hers. When she doesn't pull away, Jaime tugs her bottom lip between his and for the space of a second Brienne freezes, unsure how to react. But then his tongue is tracing the perimeter of her lower lip, and she knows that there is no turning back.

She snakes her arms around his waist, pulling him closer to her as she deepens the kiss—a move she has never initiated before but finds comes so naturally in Jaime’s arms. Her tongue slides frantically past his, the taste of him pleasantly salty with sweat.

He’s backing her up against the post, slowly, a step at a time between kisses, and when she meets resistance behind her, his hands slip away from her face, landing at her ribcage. His thumbs are drawing tingling circles just below her breasts, and she realizes the movement is a question. She places a hand over his, moving them it upward until he’s where she wants him.

The scratch of Jaime's beard seems to only further excite her. She actually moans_ out loud_ like something from a cheesy movie that Margaery might force on her when he catches her lip between his teeth. One of his thumbs is coaxing her hardened nipple, while his other hand drops toward the hem of her jersey. The tips of his fingers are drawing a line along the top of her shorts, tickling the skin above her pelvis and sending a surge of heat between her legs.

Brienne breaks away from him, reluctantly. Meeting his eyes seems no trouble now, and she sees his pupils have overtaken most of the green she usually finds there.

“Jaime,” she breathes, resting her forehead against his, “_please_.”

He grins, wide and hungry, and allows his wandering fingers to slide just under the waistband of her shorts. His eyes are on her the whole time, and her heart is pounding at the slow, deliberate movements. She can feel him then, hard and pressing heavily against her thigh. His presence sends a shiver down her back, and his grin somehow widens. He’s slowly creeping through the curls of her hair, scratching his fingers against it, tracing the curves of her. Brienne throws her head back with a groan, realizing she should never have expected anything short of teasing from him. 

He chuckles softly at her reaction, then takes his free hand and gently pulls her head toward his. “Where do you want me, Brienne?”

Her eyes dart open but she says nothing. After a beat, two of his fingers slip across her clit and she arches into his touch, but the sensation is gone as soon as it’s there.

“Oh, was _that_ it?”

He does it again, and she knows he’s watching every muscle twitch in her face. She nods this time, and then he’s stroking her properly. His lips are on hers again, and her hands seem to want to be everywhere. Sliding under his jersey, catching on the hard lines of his abdomen, through his chest hair. He pulls back from her long enough to pull the shirt over his head, discarded on the floor of the court.

“Wait,” she says, and he stills immediately, “aren’t there cameras?”

Jaime breathes a sigh of relief against her shoulder. “Turned them off,” he mumbles as he moves his mouth to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, sucking as he swirls his fingers around her clit.

Brienne inhales sharply as he finds the exact spot she thought only she would ever know, no man before him having ever bothered to touch her this carefully. He seems to notice, because once found, he doesn't remove the pads of his fingers, just rubs in a rhythmic circle, his teeth biting into the flesh of her shoulder as he does.

Jaime makes quick work of her then. The tension begins in her belly, spreading until it grips her entire body and her knees begin to give. But he's holding her steady against the post with one arm. His hand picks up the pace and he leans his head into hers. She knows he's watching her again, doesn't care. Her mouth falls open with a low, guttural sound. Just when the intensity feels like it will swallow her whole, she finds release, melting into the arm he has securely wrapped around her waist.

Their heads are still touching, but Jaime is no longer smiling. His pupils are blown, a pink flush covering his sharp cheekbones. No one has _ever _looked at Brienne this way, like she's the only thing in the world they can see. It's bewildering and frightening and she doesn't know what to do—

So she kisses him. Fiercely, as though if she doesn't they both might cease to exist. One hand grips his exposed hip and the other wraps around the back of his neck, pulling him in as close as possible. His cock juts against her through the thin fabric of his shorts, and at once it's all Brienne can think of.

She leans away from him again, trying to determine how to proceed but unable to think clearly. Everything is happening so _fast_, but she wants it, she _has_ wanted it, and—_oh gods, __how?—_Jaime clearly wants it too. Before she can talk herself out of it, Brienne pulls Jaime's jersey over her head, then tilts her head back in to kiss him.

His hands are all over her them, no more questioning or uncertainty behind his touch. A hand cups her breast and the other rakes up and down her back. He nudges her jaw with his nose insistently, and Brienne obliges, throwing her head back to give him access. He trails relentless kisses along her neck and up her jawline until he's nipping and sucking at her earlobe.

It's entirely _too_ _good_, this feeling of being wanted by someone she wants in return. Perhaps in the morning she'll regret her actions, but right now, there's only Jaime and the shocks of electricity he's sending through her.

She slides her hands down his back, across his waist, toying with the waistband of his shorts. Without slowing the work he is doing with his mouth, Jaime meets her hands and helps her slide his shorts and boxers off, his cock springing free as she had dreamed it would do when first she had seen his photograph. He grinds his shaft grinding against her clit, sending her reeling. She struggles out of her own shorts and before long they're naked, slick with sweat and desire.

Jaime's still rutting against her with rough rolls of his hips. "Is this what you want?" he whispers into his ear, rough and ragged, his hands pressed against the post behind her.

"_Yes_."

Jaime wraps his hands around her waist and hoists her up, the blinding arena lights overhead throwing shadows onto their faces from the hoops hanging high above them.

"Brienne," he rasps, holding her body around him but not quite where she wants him yet, "I've wanted this… a really long time."

"_Gods_," she groans, still unable to believe any of this is real, certain she'll awaken from yet another dream. "So have I."

Jaime grins infectiously. They're both smiling when he finally, _finally _pushes himself into her. It's exactly what Brienne imagined, for a moment. His thrusts are long, slow, and deep, ensuring she's completely filled with him before withdrawing and plunging back in. But she finds that that particular fantasy isn't fulfilling what she wants now. Jaime seems to recognize her need and increases his pace, pumping himself into her as frantically as though he's back on the court and the shot clock is running down.

Her back arches against the post, her arms around his neck as the best friend she's ever had fucks her like it's the last time they'll ever get the chance. It doesn't last long, but it's still miles better than anything Brienne has ever had before. His breathing grows heavy and his thrusts slow until she can feel him swell and release inside of her with a feral cry.

Jaime holds her there with her legs wrapped around his waist just another moment longer, and then eases them to the shining waxed floor where her head finds his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't… that was quick," he says awkwardly, and she glances up to see he's staring at the ceiling instead of looking at her.

She breathes a laugh, her hands still unable to get enough of him as they trace patterns through his chest hair and across his arm. "That was… I didn't know _it _could be good, not like … like that."

He smiles down at her then, warm and satisfied. "I wasn't worried." He squeezes her waist against him. "We should get dressed. I didn't really anticipate this, or else I might have brought a blanket."

Brienne hums, certain she's more content than she's ever been. "Just don't forget next time."

"Next time?"

"If that's what you want."

"_I do_, I just thought—aren't you still angry with me?"

Brienne sits up then, pulling her legs up to her chest and looking down into his eyes, frowning a little. "I don't want to be."

Jaime raises up as well, his flushed face serious. "Brienne. I took you on all those dates back then. I put everything else second to you. I think I must have complimented your eyes on a weekly basis. But I thought… I eventually realized you would never see me that way."

Brienne blinks. "Dates?"

He laughs genuinely then, reaching out an arm to pull her toward him. "What did you think they were? Candlelit dinners between two platonic friends?"

She shifts her gaze from his. "Jaime, you know I wasn't… I didn't have much confidence then. If you were interested you should have plainly said so."

"I know. I _know_. I'm sorry."

She smiles a little smile, kisses him and runs a finger across his stubbled jaw. "Stop saying you're sorry. Just remember the blanket next time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read and commented on this. I know it can feel weird to talk about reactions to explicit material like this, so I've really appreciated all of your interactions, big and small. I haven't written anything _this_ explicit in years and years, so I hope it was at least somewhat enjoyable!

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all convinced me to make this a multichapter endeavor. Lord help us all.


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